


Light in the Aftermath

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Arthur Pendragon/Merlin, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Darkest Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 00:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16377806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: Set at the end of the episode 'The Darkest Hour, Part Two' - prior to the return to Camelot.





	Light in the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> I'd always wanted to explore what happened after _that_ scene in The Darkest Hour (you know the one). Canon gave us one needed farewell, but missed out on the rest, I think. 
> 
> So much grateful thanks to the Merlin_Canon mods for letting me sneak this in so very, very late. 
> 
> Thanks, as ever, to my beta, Jinx (and since I never give her enough time to do her job, remaining mistakes are all my fault). Much love to Daroh for being an inspiration (even if she doesn't always know it).

“No!”

The first denial tears from his mouth: guttural, raw and scraping his throat. Those that follow, urgent repetitions of, “No! No!” are equally sharp and fervent and choked out almost as involuntary as coughing.

But the final abjuration to slip out is soft, weighed down by anguish and horror and disbelief.  A stuttered, guilt-ridden, aching whisper, “N-no,” that tastes like ash on his tongue and burns with bile at the back of his throat.

Everything is gone in a blink: the Cailleach, the void between worlds…

Lancelot.

Merlin can only stare at that emptiness, willing things to be different, aching for things to right themselves. His eyes burn with magic and unshed tears both, as he tries and tries and tries to force a different outcome, wishing for it with everything that he is.

To no avail.

Nothing happens. Nothing changes. The empty space beyond the altar remains empty. And all is still.

He’s not sure how long he stands, staring helplessly while hot tears spill freely – soaking into his scarf so heavily he can feel the damp wetting his tunic beneath through to skin – but eventually that horrible quiet is interrupted. The sounds of bootsteps thudding on stone, the jingling of chain mail, tells him that the rest of knights have entered the courtyard.

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t see, but he hears a few urgently clipped out commands and knows that they peel off in different directions. Without looking he knows that it’s Leon who rushes to Arthur’s side, and a concerned, “Gwaine,” comes from Percival. That means the footsteps approaching him slowly are Elyan.

“Merlin?”

He feels Elyan come to stand beside him. He’s silent a moment. Behind them he can hear that Arthur and Gwaine are beginning to stir.

“Lancelot?” Elyan asks softly.

Merlin bites at his lower lip and shakes his head. “He’s gone… he…” It’s too hard to choke out the truth.

Elyan’s hand curves over his shoulder, squeezing tight a moment before falling away. “Dammit,” he bites out, but says nothing else.

Leon must’ve gotten Arthur to his feet, because Merlin can hear them speaking low-voiced words of concern and reassurance, that gain volume as they near.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls out, albeit a bit unsteadily. “What… what happened? Where’s the Cailleach? Where’s the tear? I thought…”

Merlin scrubs his forearm over his eyes roughly, doing little more than spreading moisture across his face, and then turns. “I tried to stop…” He swallows, hating the way that Arthur still looks confused. “It should’ve been me.”

Arthur looks around then, realization slowly setting in. “Lancelot,” he says and it’s not a question.

Merlin can only nod.

Percival brought Gwaine ‘round at some point as well, though Gwaine’s got an arm over his shoulder and he seems a bit unsteady as they make their way over to the others. It doesn’t take more than a few speaking looks between them all for the truth to be known.

“Threw himself in, didn’t he?” Gwaine asks sharply.

Merlin can’t look at Arthur when he nods again.

“That idiot,” Gwaine blurts out.

“Gwaine,” Percival chides him, but gently.

A rush of some emotion, though Merlin’s not sure if it’s anger or sorrow, catches at Merlin’s throat. He wants to defend his friend, but at the same time he understands that Gwaine’s speaking from a place of pain.

For a moment it looks like Gwaine wants to say more, but he champs his jaw tight on whatever it is and just takes a wobbling half-step closer to Percival, who steadies him with a fist clenched tight into the chain at Gwaine’s side.

They’re all silent for a long minutes after that.

It’s Leon, stalwart and pragmatic as always, even in the face of such loss, who gets them moving. “The wyvern’s fled. I guess when…” He doesn’t finish that statement. “Still though,” he goes on. “We should probably head out of here while things are clear.”

“Right,” Arthur nods. Though he doesn’t move right away, instead staring past Merlin to where the massive tear between worlds had blocked out so much of the courtyard and even the sky. “It’s done, at least,” he says, lifting his chin. “Camelot is safe.”

 

~~~~~~***~~~~~~

 

It’s a sorry group that makes their way from the greying, tumbling ruins of the Isle, and sits somber and huddled in the small boat that ferries them across the water.

Gwaine takes lead as soon as his feet touch the gravelly shore. He stalks ahead, hardly waiting for the rest of them to struggle out of the worn vessel. He has his sword out, hacking needlessly at branches and leaf clusters that do little to hinder him. His grief sublimating as a need for action and undirected rage. Percival keeps close behind, ready and waiting to steady him – support him if need be – when it all catches up.

Elyan and Leon, trailing one after the other in Gwaine’s wake, are quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.

Merlin hangs back a moment, even as Arthur moves to follow the others.

He doesn’t want to go. It feels like he’s leaving something behind, and that to do so would be an acceptance… admitting that what happened on the Isle was real.

He doesn’t want to face that.

“Merlin?”

Merlin startles, blinking back to himself. He hadn’t realized that Arthur paused to wait, or that he’d turned back to look at him. He tries to find a way to explain himself, struggling for the right words until he sees that same reluctance in Arthur’s expression. It’s no easier for Arthur to walk away, and oddly that helps.

Swallowing hard, Merlin bobs his head in a brief nod.

Arthur doesn’t say anything else, but he gives a faint jerk of his chin – one that clearly says, “Come on, Merlin,” as sure as any words – and then starts forward again. Merlin hurries those few steps, jogging until he’s caught up.

Contradicting those actions Arthur deliberately hangs back until they’re walking abreast, and even then, he slows until there are a dozen yards between them and Elyan, who’s the closest of the knights.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, pitching his voice low, for Merlin’s ears alone. “What did happen? I mean, why did the Cailleach stop me?”

Though he’s relieved that Arthur didn’t realize just who’d used magic to knock him out, Merlin doesn’t want to talk about this yet. He’s not had time to even consider what to say, or how to explain any of what really occurred.

He shrugs, and then tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, like he’s toying with figuring it out, buying time to think. “I… don’t really know. Perhaps it was just to be cruel? Just taunting you, like she did to Gwaine. Maybe she didn’t want the rift closed? Maybe she never intended to let anyone cross over?”

Arthur makes a considering noise. “I hadn’t thought of that. But, what did she say? I mean, after she stopped me?”

Merlin can’t avoid answering. “Um, just more of the same, I think. I uh, told her I’d take your place and she asked me the same as she’d done to you. If I knew what I was doing. I said I did –”

“You shouldn’t have, Merlin,” Arthur interrupts with unexpected fervor. “It wasn’t your duty. I told you, it was my responsibility.”

“And I told you,” he protests hotly, “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“Merlin.”

Ignoring the chiding, Merlin takes a deep breath, says softly, “It was while she was talking to me that Lancelot slipped past. I didn’t see him. I didn’t even have time to –” He bites off the rest of that sentence, unsure how he’d wanted it to end.

“Say goodbye?” Arthur fills in for him.

Since the truth – which is ‘use magic to stop him’ – isn’t something Merlin can share, he nods. It’s a kind of truth, after all.

“I’m sorry, Merlin. I wish you’d gotten that chance.”

Arthur inhales deeply, like he’s steeling himself to say something else, but he just exhales slowly through flaring nostrils seconds later. Finally, he simply says, “I wish we’d all gotten that chance.” He nudges Merlin’s shoulder, prodding him forward. “C’mon. Let’s catch up.”

 

~~~~~~***~~~~~~

 

Gwaine keeps them at a fury-driven pace, and no one seems keen to slow anyway. They make it to the ruins where’d they’d camped the night prior with at least an hour of daylight to spare. Though they don’t have the duracha to fear any longer, and could continue marching into the night, Arthur calls them to a halt regardless. They need sleep, Merlin knows, and time to recover their harrowing journey and the heavy drag of loss.

“We should have a fire,” Gwaine states, after staring down at the ashes of their old firepit a long while. “I’ll go.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder and then strides off without another word. It’s clear that his fury hasn’t spent itself entirely.

Arthur gestures to Percival, a silent indication that he should follow.

“I’ll go with him,” Percival acknowledges with a grim set to his lips and a dutiful nod. His longer stride puts him on Gwaine’s heels in just a few moments and they disappear behind a crumbling wall beyond what’s left of an eastern gate.

“Why don’t we all gather some firewood,” Arthur suggests to the others. “Perhaps scare up some game if we can?”

“Right,” Elyan agrees, while Leon nods.

Whether it’s a lingering urge from their previous orders to travel in pairs, or just a desire for companionship, they both head in the same westerly direction without needing to discuss it.

“Come on,” Arthur starts off in a different direction than the others, covering a third quarter, and Merlin hurries after.

There’s a strange expression on Arthur’s face whenever Merlin catches a glimpse of it – usually while Arthur is scanning their surroundings for signs of movement of small game – and he wants to ask what it means. Although, he’s afraid as well. Not of whatever might be on Arthur’s mind (although, perhaps just a bit of that) but mainly because he knows that as soon as they brooch the subject again, it’s going to all come flooding back. Avoidance is easier to face.

A few times, as Arthur is picking through branches and debris and anything that will burn in the outskirts of the ruined keep, he stops and looks at Merlin like he wants to say something or ask something.

Merlin waits anxiously, each time, for Arthur to speak his mind, but he’s equal parts relieved and confused when Arthur just sighs or hands over more kindling to the growing bundle in his arms and doesn’t say anything at all.

It’s almost dark when they return to the campsite – the last pair to come back – with their heaping armfuls and add them to a pile that will more than last them through the night.

While fuel was plentiful, game was less-so, and none of them managed any game birds or rabbit.

After the fire is roaring, Merlin asks, “Should I cook something?” He thinks about their dwindling stores. “I could probably manage stew.” They haven’t really had a hearty meal since their travels started, as they’d needed the fires to keep them safe, rather than to waste on cooking.  

Arthur shakes his head. “We’ve trail bread and dried venison aplenty.”

No one objects to the cold supper that Merlin shares out. Even Gwaine – who usually has some quip or another about their meals – accepts his with taciturn silence.

Slouched on his bedroll, Gwaine tears at the strips of dehydrated meat and crumbles hardtack like they’ve done him harm. His motions become wilder, more aggressive, until he finally flings a chunk of venison right into the fire. “That ass,” he barks out. “That absolute horse’s ass bastard. How could he?”

“Gwaine,” Percival says softly, though it’s clearly a warning. Although who he’s protecting, Merlin isn’t sure. He lays a big hand over Gwaine’s shoulder and it’s shrugged off immediately.

“No, Percival. He was a selfish, self-righteous ass. How could he do something like that?”

Elyan rather quietly says, “Gwaine. You’d have done the same.” He gives a nod towards Arthur.

And Merlin knows what they’re all thinking: each one of them would’ve given their own lives to save Arthur, to stop him sacrificing himself. Lancelot just happened to be the one to do it.

But that’s not really the whole truth, is it?

“He’s right,” Leon adds. “Any of us would’ve.”

Gwaine makes an anguished, wounded-animal noise, kicking out at a stout branch. “I know,” he finally admits. “I know it.”

Percival says something in reply, and Elyan answers, but Merlin stops hearing their words. Because they _don’t_ know… They don’t know that Lancelot went into that courtyard for Merlin. He only threw his life away to stop Merlin doing the same.

Maybe he would’ve sacrificed himself regardless. Hell, there’s no maybe about it. Merlin knows without a doubt, Lancelot would’ve. Any of them would’ve, given the chance.

But… he’d have also let Arthur go through the void, if Arthur had ordered him too – damn knights and their sense of honor – if Merlin hadn’t been there.

It’s only because of _him_ that Lancelot is gone.

Merlin can’t stay around the fire and listen any longer.

He gets to his feet and walks into the dark.

Behind him he can hear that they’re still talking. They don’t seem to notice that he’s left.

He’s glad of it.

 

~~~~~~***~~~~~~

 

Merlin sits down in what was likely once a wide corridor, propped up against the remains of a stone wall. He tucks his knees against his chest and wraps his arms around them. He wants to just stay there, alone; to close his eyes and not think about anything.

Of course, that means it’s only a very short while before he hears footsteps. Behind closed eyelids, the blackness brightens to red, and he opens his eyes to see Arthur standing above him, torch in hand.

“You don’t need that,” Merlin says, probably too aggressively.

“It’s still dark, Merlin,” Arthur replies. “And I’d rather not stumble over this uneven ground.” He looks down at his feet a moment, perhaps studying the half-buried, moss-covered blocks of lime or marble that once lined a floor. “It’s cold though. You should come back to the fire.”

Merlin doesn’t move. “I’m fine,” he says shortly.

Arthur sighs, heavily. But instead of walking away as Merlin expects, Arthur stakes the torch in a pile of earth and rubble and then sits down in the torch-lit dark next to Merlin. Close enough that their shoulders touch.

“He didn’t do it for you,” Merlin blurts out. “He did it for me. Because I was…” He can’t finish, his voice is starting to waver.

“Maybe he did it for both of us?” Arthur suggests, in kindness.

“No,” Merlin objects, shaking his head adamantly. “It’s my fault. I told him that I wasn’t going to let you do it… that I was going to go in your place. And he… he wouldn’t let…  He sacrificed himself for me.”

Still, Arthur argues. “He sacrificed himself for all of us, whether he meant too or not. For the whole Kingdom. Saving countless lives.” He scoffs a noisy sound of self-recrimination. “I should’ve known,” Arthur goes on, for the first time sounding angry himself. “Just like him to go out in the noblest sacrifice one could imagine.”

For some reason, that makes Merlin laugh, soft and brief though it is. Maybe it’s the irony of Arthur being the one to say that to him; as if Arthur wouldn’t have walked right through that rift, had Merlin not stopped him.

He realizes then, that threading through the grief and sorrow and struggle to accept such a loss, there’s a miniscule filament of guilt. Because, while he’s bereft at the loss of his friend, he’s also… relieved that Arthur’s still alive. And he hates himself for that.

Part of him wants absolution for those awful thoughts, that there’s even the smallest part of him that would see Lancelot die so Arthur can live, and he considers sharing them for a minute. He decides against it though. This isn’t the time for him to talk about it. Arthur will only continue to blame himself for Merlin’s own guilt, and Merlin doesn’t want that.

For a minute he wonders if Arthur can read his thoughts, because he takes a heavy breath, readying to break the silence.

Instead of the recrimination Merlin expects, instead Arthur admits, “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Gwen.”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut a moment, thinking about what this will do to Gwen. God, this is going to break her heart.

“She’s going to blame me,” Arthur adds, sorrowful but sure.

“She’s going to blame _you_? No,” Merlin disagrees, confused. “Why would she do that?”

Arthur is silent so long that Merlin doesn’t think he’s going to answer. When he does, his voice is steady, matter-of-fact. “Because she loved him.”

Merlin wants to protest, but that’s one lie too many. Instead he offers, “Arthur, she loves _you_.”

“I know,” Arthur nods. “I _know_ she does, Merlin. And I love her. But, I also know she never got over him. And I don’t… I don’t blame her for her feelings. I can’t.” He presses the heel of his palm against his forehead, rubbing across his brows a moment. “God knows I have no right… she’s not the only one with a warring heart.” He makes the admission softly, and the look he gives Merlin after those words slip out is so sorrowful and profound.

Yet, Merlin doesn’t know what he means. “I’m sorry… I don’t…”

Thin lips tilt up at the corners just faintly, becoming a ghost of a smile that holds no joy. “Don’t worry.  It’s… nothing, really.” Which is the exact opposite of what it sounds like. It sounds like it’s everything and Merlin wants desperately to understand.

Before he can question it further though, Arthur sighs, heavily, and says. “I think it would have been better if I’d gone.”

“What? No,” Merlin objects, too sharp and too desperate. “No, Arthur, that’s crazy. How could you think that?”

Tipping his head back against the stone, Arthur closes his eyes and sighs again. “They’d have been able to console each other. Not that I wouldn’t, if I could. I’ll try, of course, but… She won’t be able to… I mean, I think they’d have done so more openly. More honestly. The two of them. She won’t feel right turning to me with this. She’ll feel guilty for hurting so much and will take this on alone.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Arthur goes on, “for you both. I’ve never lost someone I felt that way about. Friends, yes, comrades, brothers-at-arms… I’ve seen my fair share of death to be sure. But never someone I… cared for so deeply.” He says the latter carefully, deliberately, like he’s implying something else entirely.

“I don’t… I don’t understand, Arthur?”

Though he’s still got his head angled back against the stone, Arthur opens his eyes to fix Merlin with a sad-eyed, knowing look. “It’s _okay_ , Merlin,” Arthur says reassuringly, like his words should make sense. “Your feelings are nothing to feel shame over.”

Merlin frowns. “No, Arthur, I actually don’t understand. What do you… what are you…?” He trails off as he slowly makes sense of it.

The conclusion Arthur’s reached is almost laughable… except Merlin finds no humor in it. “No, Arthur,” Merlin repeats, though he can’t meet Arthur’s eyes. “It’s not… it’s not like that. It never was.”

Arthur’s confused frown mirrors Merlin’s. “But I thought that… I mean.”

“No, never.”

“Oh,” Arthur says softly, and even in the ruddy glow of the flickering torch-light, Merlin can see color come to his cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Unable to help himself, Merlin turns to his hip, putting his shoulder against the wall so he can look at Arthur face on. He grabs at Arthur’s forearm, his wrist just below the edge of the chain, and holds tight. “Arthur, I feel so many things over the loss of someone who was my dearest friend. I’m, I’m… angry and guilty and heartbroken and…” –he can’t even find the words to describe all of what he’s feeling – “And, I know this is going to hurt for a long time to come. But, in time I’ll remember my friend and mourn him and go on.”

That doesn’t seem to console Arthur any. He screws up his face, lips twisting in a confused frown. “I know, Merlin. That was my point.”

Rolling his eyes probably won’t help, so Merlin refrains. He just wishes Arthur weren’t so… Arthur sometimes. “No, Arthur. My point is, that as much as it hurts, as much as I _hate_ that I can’t change things, I’ll survive. But if it was you…” Words catch in his throat, tangling with a knot of emotion that he can barely push past. “If it was you, I’d have no reason to go on.”

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes.

His hand comes to rest on Merlin’s, where it’s still clasped tighter around the sturdy bones of Arthur’s other wrist. He presses there, squeezing tight at Merlin’s grip.  And then the hand lifts, fingers extended, and Merlin feels them touch his check. It’s a gentle… caress almost.

When Arthur draws his hand back, just a bit, to hang in the air between them, Merlin can see the glint of torchlight refracting in droplet that’s balancing on his knuckle.

Suddenly ashamed – he hadn’t realized he’d started crying again – Merlin ducks his chin, though he can’t help but keep his gaze fixed on Arthur. “I know,” Merlin says quietly. “I know. No man is worth my tears.”

Arthur turns his hand, fingers flexing, and seems to watch the teardrop trail down to drip off his fingertip. “This one was,” he says.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “He was.”

By some unspoken accord, they both shift again, backs to the stone and shoulders pressing almost too tight. Arthur tips his head slightly, and Merlin angles his just so, propping one another up, and the hold he has on Arthur’s wrist doesn’t so much change, as it does migrate, until their hands are clasped between them.

Merlin knows this night, this conversation, this intimate consolation in the dark, won’t ever be referred to again. Arthur will return to Camelot and to Gwen, and Merlin will follow dutifully after, as he’s destined to do.

But for just a little while, Arthur’s cheek pressed to his, the warmth between their bodies and the tangle of their hands, is all that Merlin knows in the world.

Eventually, their torch starts to gutter, and the chill of the night closes around them. Arthur sighs, like some spell has broken and he slowly gets to his feet.

“C’mon, Merlin. Let’s get back to the fire.”

And after he draws Merlin up with that clinging grip of their hands, his fingers slowly, finally, pull away.

 

~~~~~~***~~~~~~

 

Nothing is said about their over-long absence, but their return is greeted with a proffered wineskin. “Something to ward off the chill,” Elyan explains.

Arthur accepts the vessel, and from the way his nose wrinkles after he sniffs the opening, it’s carrying more than wine.

“We were…” Gwaine makes a loose gesture that’s too vague to interpret.

“Memorializing,” Leon supplies.

No one is smiling, and the mood remains somber, but that heavy overlay of harsh, aching grief has abated somewhat.

They settle on their bedrolls, each of them ringing the fire and close to the others, and then Arthur takes a drink. He grimaces a bit after swallowing but hands the pouch to Merlin after.

Merlin follows suit, and the burn of whatever the skin’s contents make him cough and suck in a breath after he manages to get it down. It’s smoky and slightly sweet and Merlin’s tongue feels tingly and numb in its wake.

He passes it back to Gwaine, who pauses with it a moment. “There was nobody better to watch your back in a tavern brawl or on the battlefield.” A there-and-gone grin flashes over his mouth before he hoists the skin and takes a long pull.

Percival accepts it next. “I’d not be here if it wasn’t for him. I owe him all that is good in my life these days.”

Leon’s toast is short, heartfelt. “A warrior without peer. No better man with a sword.”

“The bravest and truest of us all,” Elyan says and then pauses, mouth open like he wants to say more. Nothing follows though, and he just nods and then takes his drink.

Arthur raises his arm high, wielding the wineskin like he’s wielding a sword. “The most noble knight I’ll ever know.”

The wineskin passes to Merlin’s hand, Arthur’s fingertips lingering just a bit too long when he passes it over. Merlin holds it tight a moment, feels how much lighter it is, and knows it will be empty before this night is through.

“My friend,” Merlin says simply, though heartfelt. “Sir Lancelot.”

The others echo him, the name ringing out into the dark and fading to nothingness…

“Sir Lancelot.”


End file.
